


You're cold and I burn; I guess I'll never learn.

by pflaume



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fuckbuddies, M/M, another fwb!jeongcheol, or not???, who wants out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 11:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13612461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pflaume/pseuds/pflaume
Summary: Jeonghan shouldn't have swept the dirt under the rug.Seungcheol shouldn't have kept the creases the way they were.





	You're cold and I burn; I guess I'll never learn.

**Author's Note:**

> Total word vomit. I just want this out of my head, bye.
> 
> (Unbeta-ed because I have only the littlest time.)

“I’ve been living alone for quite some time actually...” The familiar voice bounces off the wall before it lazily drips down to a background murmur inside his head. Jeonghan presses himself further against the headboard.

“Must be really sad sometimes, Cheol?” _And further until his back could feel the hard wood crease against his exhausted skin._

One thing that sucks about having to try and convince yourself you've forgotten, one particular nudge—probably, the rain or Jeonghan should stop making excuses for him to tread back to the familiar flat— would trigger the surge of recollections and it’s back to summer, two years ago.

And Jeonghan is more than terrified.

The door of the room swings open, half of a broad back comes into view, turns around— “Yeah, my bedroom? Oh, wait,” and makes eye contact with him. “I’m sorry about that, I can’t. It’s messy.”

The door closes.

 

 

_“Close the door on your way out.”_

_“Noted.” It’s all these things that Jeonghan hates: coffees sometimes taste way too sweet for his own liking; and, Seungcheol’s vacant voice that slips off nothing but a placid, cold shrug._

Jeonghan opts to scan the ruins of the room—messy, indeed. It’s too quiet and the padding of feet becomes fainter until he can’t hear them anymore like how he opted to stare at something far than to meet his eyes that day.

It’s four minutes before the door swings open again.

 

 

_“Yoon Jeonghan, I’m going to scold you.”_

_“What? I’m not doing anything!”_

_“I will keep the door open.”_

_“Sure, sir.”_

“What are you doing here?” There’s exhaustion laced in the other’s voice and if Jeonghan did not feel pathetic earlier, now he does.

He swears he tried his best to smile, to mock him, but his lips pulled down into a frown, tugging not only the corners of his lips but somewhere he doesn’t know. _Or would not admit._ “Finally found someone who could give you the time I wasn’t able to give you?”

Seungcheol tentatively walks around the crevices of Jeonghan’s faults and chooses to sit down on the edge of the bed. He reaches out to massage his left ankle and there’s resignation in the face that Jeonghan once did not expect to have. “Let’s get you home.”

That’s what he’s terrified with.

The younger pulls his feet back and curls his knees up to his chest.

_“Don’t pull my leg too much, idiot. That hurts!”_

_Jeonghan should have been compromised to a daily routine of coming in to terms that eighteen isn’t probably way too young anymore, if not for Seungcheol._

_“I won’t be doing this if you stretched enough before playing. You’re dumb. Do you know that?”_

Sure the sheets sear desperately familiar under his flesh but the elder’s touch is more burning. He can’t tolerate it.

Maybe the worst kind of anger is the suppressed one, or maybe the one mingled with longing and silence—because not once did he take his gaze away from the other. Seungcheol gets up and opens the door.

That’s when Jeonghan asks. “Why can’t I have you the way that I want?”

Seungcheol turns around and there, Jeonghan finally sees-- the fury.

 

 

_“Han, we shouldn’t be doing this.”_

_There’s a lot of things Jeonghan isn’t proud of but there’s also a hell lot of reasons for his actions. Rationalizations have paved him his way of getting on whatever he can carve out of guilt’s wrath. The end does justify the means, as he likes to say._

_“What are you talking about?”_

_But Seungcheol’s touch, he decides, is something he won’t deprive himself of, even if it means slightly disturbing the conscience that has long been asleep in the back of his head._

_“Fuck.”_

 

 

“What do you want, Jeonghan? Attention?”

Jeonghan flinches at how his name rolls in the raven’s tongue. _Attention, probably._ He gets up and pats his shirt before he murmurs, “You.”

The laugh that escapes Seungcheol’s mouth is mocking, a hundred-eighty degree turn from the complacent voice he put up earlier. It reminds him of the tattoo that runs down Seungcheol’s back; makes him _want_ to claw at it again, for the last time.

“If you’re expecting we could get back to the way we were, that’s a throw to the wind.”

But Jeonghan knows Seungcheol. He knows the slight quirk of his lips; _even though it houses despise, he could tell how much he’s only controlling himself back._ “Don’t you want me?”

 

 

_“Don’t you want me?”_

_Jeonghan has his way of words. It comes through easy; as a talent he’s held close to his facades and walls._

_“I—what?”_

_“I said, don’t you want me?”_

_Jeonghan has his way of words and he sometimes wish he shouldn’t have._

“Jeonghan, even if I begged you, you still wouldn’t stay.”

The younger only takes big three steps. Finally, inches away from the man, he’s breathless but he grips at the hem of the other’s shirt and he rests his head on his chest; a shout of surrender, defeat. “We could be friends... who don’t see other people.”

 

 

_“What are we?”_

_“Friends.”_

_“Oh.”_

“Huh,” Seungcheol spits but did not make any move to push him away. “Friends who fuck?”

“You enjoyed our arrangement.”

“Nothing has changed. I still need you and you still don’t want me.”

Jeonghan looks up and threads his finger through Seungcheol’s soft black locks, pushing the falling fringes away from his eyes, revealing the entirety of how exhausted he is. The younger relishes at the sight, melts at the warmth and aches at how his gaze seems just there.. and at the same time far. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

 

 

_“You look undeniably hot when your hair is pushed back.”_

_“So, I’ve been told.”_

_“’Thank you’ is the right answer to my compliment. I can see your ego from here.”_

“We could still be friends for one last time.” His hands are fast to skim down the elder’s arms down his waist before he’s forcibly yanked back and pushed off and out the door. Seungcheol’s grip is hard around his upper arm and it _hurts_ but nothing merely compares to how pathetic he had come.

“Get out, Jeonghan.”

This time the smile comes easy for Jeonghan, pain hidden behind deceit and a smirk that stretches beautifully across his features. “How about you, Cheol? What do you actually need from me?”

“I _don’t_ need someone who only likes me from afar.”

 

 

Jeonghan’s first sentences upon meeting Seungcheol is, “Don’t even try sitting on that chair. I don’t need anyone. And I’m not even slightly interested for a date.”

Circumstances shouldn’t have let the two happen.

Seungcheol’s first laugh around Jeonghan dwindles with words like, “What—? I’m only asking if I could borrow this chair. I’m sitting with my friends over there.”

Circumstances say those weren’t the first sentences Jeonghan ever said to the older. College hallways had been a pass for short _‘Excuse me’_ s or _‘I’m sorry’_ s to nameless people along the faceless crowd. They’re all slick with sweat. Seungcheol remembers PE. Jeonghan is busy with his half-open backpack and coffee cup, lips pressed to the lid and shouting at someone for ruining his sketchbook.

Maybe Seungcheol really wanted to share the table with Jeonghan.

 

 

 

“I don’t like the tattoo.” Jeonghan also has his way with lies: true intent under snide comments and nonchalant spites. If someone could lie straight into hell, that would be him. He won’t even blink.

“Not that I need your approval,” Seungcheol is spontaneous where Jeonghan remains unmarred. There’s a two-way train to where their fissures rip and fill.

The next day, Seungcheol gets a cartilage piercing in his left ear.

 

 

 

“We need to stop this.”

Seungcheol gives him a scoff and the wrong nerves bubble up his throat. “What? Being _friends_?”

Jeonghan gives in to the physical pressure, inches closer and presses his forehead on Seungcheol’s knee, hoping the vague action sends the older a sort of gentle apology. “Seungcheol.” he breaths out, wondering how did Seungcheol get another tattoo on his wrist without him knowing.

Another topic for another day— _or maybe never._

The blond feels the warmth of Seungcheol’s rough hands against his cheeks. He wished they weren’t pulling him closer to the other’s face so he won’t need to fake the hesitance he has acquiesced to play, over time. “Han, I’ve been so inlove with you. We could be officially together, you know. Not playing around like this.”

The apology did not come around close and Jeonghan shuts his eyes hard enough to block Seungcheol’s eyes.

 

 

_“You’re so bad at lying. Poker will never be the same again.”_

_“I’m not!”_

_“You have goofy eyes that spill everything you were about to lie with.”_

_“Huh, goofy.”_

_“Pretty.”_

“I did not mean it that way. We need to stop this... and go our own ways.”

“Oh.”

“You were always so nice and..” Jeonghan has his way with lies. He just hopes he wasn’t so keen and good at playing poker. They did not stop though, the hatefuck, that is. It goes through months until there was more to the word “hate” than the deed itself.

 

 

 

 

Jeonghan is versatile; a jack of all trades.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, is a master of one. If there’s something the man is so good at, except sex and Physics (albeit as contrasting as they were, subjecting them together would be very peculiar), it would be _hate_.

The shift happened fast and silent.

“Who is it?”

“Why do you care?” It’s Seungkwan who got pent up this time. His pen gets discarded on the floor and Jeonghan pinches his nose in annoyance.

The cafeteria paves the way for unnecessary meeting of gazes over a hoard of bodies pushed to squeeze together into a big room that wafts poor cooking and bad sanitation. The blond makes sure he doesn’t look where Mingyu’s voice is booming loud to get everyone’s attention—something about a meeting he isn’t interested with.

“I said, who?” he reiterates to show he isn’t gonna be swayed.

“Way younger than him,” Wonwoo says in his seat, nose buried in _“The Shining”._ His fastest record is Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban in three days, without proper meals.

“Helpful,” Jeonghan adds, clearly wanting more.

“Wen Junhui, Chinese student from Multimedia Arts.”

Jeonghan hastily gets up the moment Mingyu says _“Don’t forget about the orientation tomorrow!”_ over everyone’s buzz of noises and he makes a mistake of turning his head at the direction. He’s given a gaze and a small smile. He doesn’t know why there’s a papery taste in his mouth at how the other’s arm is secured around the smaller boy’s shoulders.

The cafeteria’s juice sure tastes likes shit.

 

 

 

The first summer spent with Seungcheol goes something along the lines of “Why, the fuck, are you naked?” and “Ice, need ice.”

Seungcheol is that dress shirt tucked in the back of his closet; someone he should not wear because he knows he won’t fit him but all the while, admires because he’s too good not to take a chance with.

“I told you. Stop eating microwave food.”

“I think I can hear my mom from somewhere in here.”

“Cheol, stop being an ass. It’s fucking three hundred degrees Celsius, why are you eating ramen?”

“I don’t have any groceries!”

“You’re a sad case.”

“Not when you’re here.”

Jeonghan, then, kept him in the back. _Afraid of any spoil._

 

 

 

 

It’s anticlimactic, to say the least. He never expects to feel slightly a bit relieved to find Seungcheol, clad in his hoodie that Jeonghan really likes because it smells exactly like him, musky smell of sex and hidden demons—

_“You smell like sex.”_

_“Chinese food?”_

_“Sex.”_

_“Does sex have a scent?”_

_“Probably.”_

\--in the local coffee shop downtown at two in the morning. The relief comes placating, to say that he isn’t the only one damaged in their outline. Jeonghan has been dropping by for weeks. Seungcheol likes vodka and two shots espresso, not concocted together (just to be very clear), Jeonghan remembers.

“You look like shit,” he murmurs, dropping himself on the couch in front of the man. Seungcheol’s bags under his eyes are prominent and his fringes hang low on his eyes, covering them. Jeonghan flicks away the urge to push it back just so he could look at his lashes again, after six whole months.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Seungcheol chuckles and his frame dangerously vibrates through his whole being.

Jeonghan frowns and reaches for Seungcheol’s hand on the table.

For the first time, after a year, he doesn’t flinch.

“You must be very good at tug-of-war.”

“If you only know.”

 

 

 

_“Yoon Jeonghan! What the fuck did you do?!”_

_“I told Junhui the truth.”_

_“Lies! Motherfu- they were all lies!”_

_“The truth, Seungcheol. Maybe a bit out of timeline.”_

_“I don’t understand you.”_

_Jeonghan laughs but a chord strikes deep in his chest and he slightly chokes on air. “I don’t understand myself, either.”_

_“Stop pushing and pulling.”_

_“I love you, Seungcheol.”_

_“Stop toying with me like this.”_

 

 

Jeonghan sighs, planting his face straight against Seungcheol’s bare chest. The pristine sheets pool down his waist. Seungcheol’s skin feels achingly familiar against his and his, now blond, locks still feel the same through his digits. The older has lost weight. Jeonghan misses the plush thighs under his bare ass. The two-am coffee is cold and left unattended on the bed’s side table.

“I don’t get _us,_ ” the man mouths every word on Jeonghan’s jaw, as if punishing him with every blame it drips.

There’s a slight patch of wetness across his cheeks. Jeonghan’s sure it isn’t because of how sore his body feels so he stays silent.

“You’re really so good at this.”

 

 

 

_“Fuck, baby—you’re doing so good.”_

_“This?”_

_“Stop fucking teasing.”_

“At what?”

“Breaking my heart.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Choi Seungcheol’s voicemail. Message after the beep.”

Jeonghan mocks-laugh, submerging himself down the tub of cold water, until all he could feel is his face. He wants every bit of Seungcheol erased, scratched at, peeled off. How could he ever do that when all he could remember is his mouth all over his skin?

“Choi.”

And then silence.

“You’re not the only one who’s breaking.”

 

 

 

His second summer with Seungcheol is paradoxical—the best and at the same time the worst.

“Cheol!” he jumps on the man who immediately catches him in his arm. “I grew taller than you!” And then he also gets off just so he can show the man what he has been rambling about.

Holidays used to be Jeonghan’s favorite. But he met Seungcheol, who isn’t usually around during holidays—

 

_“Where are you going again?”_

_“Daegu.”_

\-- and he’s terrified.

“I’m still taller than you, pipsqueak.”

He swings his backpack around and hits Seungcheol in the chest with it. His uniform goes askew and his face scrunches up into a _beautiful_ smile.

Jeonghan used to be unattached.

Seungcheol leans in (not down) to place a peck on his lips.

Now, he doesn’t know.

 

 

 

 

“Choi Seungcheol’s voicemail. Message after the beep.”

 

_“Where are you going again?”_

_“Florida.”_

“Come back.”

 

 

 

It’s all these things that Jeonghan like: warm, fuzzy socks and how Seungcheol opts the characters in it to be iconic and extra; Seungcheol’s bushy eyebrows and his inks— _god, even his piercings._

His back hits the wall and he groans at the pressure against his body. There’s urgency and need at the same time; a hurried release of things they were hiding.

It’s two a.m. He was about to go out and get coffee.

“I’m sorry-“ he says but his mouth gets plundered with Seungcheol’s mouth and drowns out all his words in his throat. His hands were everywhere, tuning every movement along his want. God, he missed this.

Seungcheol doesn’t say a thing, only focuses on undressing him. “S-Seungcheol, I’m sorry.”

But oh god, he cants his hips deliciously against him and Jeonghan gasps, legs coming around the elder’s waist, keening at the surge of pleasure and friction. He sure is rough but Jeonghan isn’t the one to fake modesty so he desperately tugs at the man’s shirt before he finally obliges to take it off.

The fluorescent is dim all throughout Jeonghan’s apartment but it only takes Seungcheol’s tattoos to slap Jeonghan hard, bring sob back into his throat and then he freezes, tee tears finally leaking down his pretty, pretty face.

 

 

_“What do you ever like about tattoos?”_

_“It’s art and expression, Han. You should know that yourself, you’re an art student.”_

_“Aren’t you only doing that just to iterate your jock status?”_

_“It’s me saying there are things worth getting hurt for.”_

_A skip beat._

_“Like you.”_

Seungcheol slowly stops littering hard kisses to his neck and then he pulls away. Maybe that was the most painful departure he’d done because Jeonghan collapses on the floor in a weak heap. It’s suddenly cold but Seungcheol’s eyes aren’t any warmer.

“I’m sorry.”

There’s a weak sob and Jeonghan isn’t sure if it’s from him or from Seungcheol. “List all the things you’ve done? You’d take weeks.”

“I was just coward.”

“You only wanted attention, Jeonghan.”

“Only your attention,” he hisses, dropping dangerously close to shouting. He hates Seungcheol and at the same time craves and wants him.

“And nothing after the sex.” Jeonghan’s chest throbs at the spite—hate all coming from the man he ever loved, _and loves._

“I want you, Seungcheol! Why are you being so problematic?”

Frustration kicks in and Seungcheol wildly paces around the room in search of something to calm him down. Jeonghan presses himself further against the wall.

“Problematic? When all I did was strip my all to you, you’re calling me problematic? And what? Weren’t you fast to throw away everything I did? You are unbelievable, Yoon Jeonghan!” _And further until his back could feel the hard wood crease against his exhausted skin._

“I love you—“

“But when I move a step away from you, you come close three steps in!”

“—way too up close.”

Seungcheol drops on his knees, defeated, lost and exhausted. “Please tell me you’re not breaking my heart again.”

Jeonghan crawls toward the other; body too tired to function. Seungcheol welcomes him with a warm embrace. “Please tell me you’re not leaving me again.”

There are unsaid things between the two.

 

_“I love you.”_

_“You sure about that?”_

_“I’m not kidding, asshole.”_

_“Sure. I love you too. But you probably already know.”_

Another topic for another day— _this time, it’s for sure._

 

 

 

 

“Jeonghan and Seungcheol’s voicemail. Message after the beep.”

“Seungcheol hyung, Jeonghan hyung told me I could come over for stew! Hah, you’re assigned to get groceries!”

 

 

 


End file.
